


the lost decree

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Comment Fic, F/F, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt at the <a href="http://girljustdied.livejournal.com/93525.html">where the wild roses grow</a> comment ficathon: <i>not the needle, nor the thread, the lost decree. saying nothing, that's enough for me</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the lost decree

The ground beneath her is dry and brittle; twigs cracking under the weight of someone’s feet.

“Morgana,” Gwen says, and there’s a tenderness to her voice that Morgana hasn’t heard in years, not even when Gwen was under her spell.

Gwen doesn’t hesitate to take her in her arms. Morgana wants to speak, but the magic that’s killing her has seeped into her bones, choking, overwhelming. It’s ironic, in a way, that the very magic she gave up everything for is now poisoning her from the inside. Merlin had left her for dead, but maybe he’d known. Maybe these last few minutes of agony were a kindness, an opportunity to say goodbye. To not die alone.

There’s wetness on her face. Gwen’s crying, cradling her. If she could speak, she’d say, _I wish I never had this. I wish I could have had you instead._ The words end up lost, like her, fading, like her, into a place where Gwen can’t follow.

 

*

 

It’s the 1920s and everything is artfully rumpled hair and pearls sewn into tulle and crashing stock markets. “I wish you’d stop reading that bloody thing,” Morgana says, blowing an impatient ring of smoke from her pursed lips, tapping on the table to get Gwen’s attention.

Gwen looks up from the newspaper. “It can’t hurt to follow the news, milady.”

“And stop with that milady shit.” Morgana slips on to her maid’s lap and steals a kiss.

“The guests will be arriving soon,” Gwen reminds her, her mouth still against Morgana’s.

“Spoilsport.” Morgana dips her tongue into Gwen’s mouth for another taste. 

She dies a week later, body crushed into the remains of her beloved car, Gwen bloodied and barely conscious beside her, holding tightly to her hand.

 

*

 

It’s Christmas and the war lights up the night sky like fireworks. Morgana wonders sometimes why she even bothers to change every time her white pinafore gets splattered with the blood from yet another injured soldier, but Gwen’s always at her elbow, pressing her to get some food, get some rest.

“You’re like a bloody machine,” she says, not unkindly, as she allows Gwen to strip her and guide her into a wooden tub full of steaming water.

“Look who’s talking.” Gwen picks up a washcloth and runs it over Morgana’s back, her shoulders. Morgana wraps her arms around her knees and inhales, steam floating up into her nostrils. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, leaning back into Gwen’s shoulder. The washcloth marks an unhurried path across her collarbones, under her armpits, warm wetness sliding against her skin with perfect friction.

 

*

 

“Didn’t we already live through this one?” Morgana asks, glancing at the headlines.

“Depression, recession. Different things.” Gwen spreads marmalade on a piece of toast and puts it on Morgana’s plate.

“Tomayto, tomahto.” Morgana bites into her toast with a crunch. “There’s butter on this,” she accuses.

“It’s a Sunday. Live a little.”

They’re quiet for a while. Morgana watches Gwen as she balances her chequebook at the dining table, her eyes serious behind her wire-rimmed glasses. She flips the book shut with a tiny nod of her head, and Gwen glances up at her.

“What’ve I said about using magic at the dining table, Pendragon?”

Morgana smirks. “Shut up and come back to bed.”


End file.
